I also saw the motive for this particular course of action. During the
week immense quantities of the Wild Pigeon (Passenger Pigeon, _Columba
Migratoria_) had been flying over the city, in their way to and from
a _roost_ in the neighborhood. These birds had been slaughtered by
myriads, and were for sale by the bushel at the corners of every street
in the city. Although all the birds which could be killed by man made
the smallest impression on the vast multitude contained in one of these
flocks,--computed by Wilson to consist of more than twenty-two hundred
millions,--yet to Booth the destruction seemed wasteful, wanton, and
from his point of view was a wilful and barbarous murder.

Such a sentiment was perhaps an exaggeration; still I could not but
feel a certain sympathy with its humanity. It was an error in a good
direction. If an insanity, it was better than the cold, heartless sanity
of most men. By the time, therefore, that Booth was ready to speak, I
was prepared to answer.

"You see," said he, "these innocent victims of man's barbarity. I wish
to testify in some public way against this wanton destruction of life.
And I wish you to help me. Will you?"

"Hardly," I replied. "I expected something very different from this,
when I received your note. I did not come to see you expecting to be
called to assist at the funeral solemnities of birds."

"Nor did I send for you," he answered. "I merely wrote to ask about the
lot in the grave-yard. But now you are here, why not help me? Do you
fear the laugh of man?"

"No," I returned. "If I agreed with you in regard to this subject, I